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THE  RECKLESS  JOURNEY  OF 

R.  PALASCO   DRANT,  NEWSPAPER  CORRESPONDENT, 

THROUGH  THE  INFERNAL  REGIONS, 
AS  REPORTED  BY  HIMSELF. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY 


CHICAGO: 
THK  SCHITI.TK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  FRANCIS  J.  SCHUI/TE. 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED. 


Copyright,  1893,  by  ARTHUR  H.  YOUNG. 


R.  Palasco  Drant, 

The. Late  Mr.  Dante,  of  Italy, 


Frontispiece 


Mr.    Dante's   Successor   Falls   off  a  Fast-Moving 
Train, 


On  the  Way  to  Hell, 
The  Main  Entrance, 
The  Register, 

A  View  from  Satan's  Private  Office, 
Mr.  Satan's  Private  Office, 
The  Hon.    Mr.    Satan, 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued. 


A  Delectable  Pastime, 
Captain  Charon, 
Crossing  the  River  Styx, 
Judge  Minos'  Court-room, 
The  Political  Caricaturists,   . 
The  Limited  Express, 


PAGE 
19 

21 


23 

25 
27 
29 


No  Hilarity  among  the  Tailors,          .        31 
Down  among  the  Mashers,  .  33 

The  Lawyers,  .  .  -35 

Inventor  of  the  Barb-Wire  Fence,  36 

A  Ball  Game,  .  .  37 

He  Played  the  Cornet,      .  .  38 

Key-Hole  Reporters  and  Lazy  Men,         39 
The  Umbrella-Borrower,  .  40 


PAGK 

The  Editors,  .  .  41 

Satan  Addressing  the  Strikers,  .  43 

The  Selfish  Husband,  .  .        44 

A  Clumsy  Ballet,  .  .  45 

The  Dentist's  Fate,  .  46 

A  Rebuke  to  Gormandizing,     ^.  47 

Policemen,    .  .  .  .48 

Some  Bad  Amateur  Photographers,        49 
The  Tramps,  .  .  51 

The  Society  Bore,  .  .  53 

Boodle  Aldermen,     .  .  -55 

Board  of  Trade  Gamblers,          .  57 

Bunko  Steerers,        .  .  -59 

Agile  Defaulters,  .  .  61 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued.  xi 


PAGE 


Mendacious  Individuals,    .              .  63                          The  Monopolists,                .              .        75 

The  Quack  Doctors,     .             .  65                         The  Ministers,               .             .             77 

Poker  Players,        .              .  -67                          The  Brute  Pugilists,           .              .        79 

The  Female  Department,  .              69                          Chronic  Kickers,           .              .              81 

Cold  Business  Men,            .  .        71                           A  Guard  of  the  Exit,          .              .        83 

The  Kentucky  Colonels,  .              73                          End  of  the  Journey,     .              .             85 


A  Word  about  Mr.  Dante. 


Dante  Alighieri  was  the  first  man  to  make  a  really 
thorough  exploration  of  Hell.  That  was  several 
hundred  years  ago.  Even  now  there  can  be  seen 
down  there  the  famous  gentleman's  footprints.  For 
tunately  Dante  had  a  guide,  one  Virgil,  a  poet  for 
whom  he  had  always  shown  a  tender  attachment. 

The  terms  on  which  Virgil  offered  his  services 
are  immaterial  here,  though  it  is  interesting  to 
know  how  easily  Dante,  by  timely  use  of  soft  words, 
induced  this  eminent  poet  to  go  ahead  and  perform 
such  humiliating  jobs  as  that  of  carrying  the  Italian 
across  ravines  of  hissing  snakes;  of  defending  him 
against  the  onslaught  of  demons;  or  of  chasing  his 
laurel  crown  down  a  deep  chasm  after  he  had  fallen 
in  a  fit. 

Dante,  when  in  "  that  gloomy  wood  astray,"  dis 
cerns  a  form  of  one  "whose  voice  seemed  faint 
through  long  disuse  of  speech."  Frightened  at 


first,  he  soon  recovers  and  asks  the  specter's  name. 
The  apparition  tells  him,  in  slow,  measured  blank 
verse,  the  story  of  his  ancestry.  When  he  has 
finished  Dante  starts  forward  with  bulging  eyes: 
"And  art  thou,  then,  that  Virgil?"  (Virgil  grunts, 
for  what  better  can  a  spirit  do  than  grunt?)  "  My 
master,  thou,  and  guide!  Thou  art  he  from  whom 
alone  I  have  derived  that  style  which  for  its  beauty 
into  fame  exalts  me."  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that 
Dante,  through  a  little  skillful  flattery  (for  Dante 
was  a  politician  as  well  as  a  poet),  made  Virgil  his 
guide.  Dante  was  a  tall,  round-shouldered  man, 
whose  nature  was  doubtless  proud  and  even  offens 
ively  arrogant.  Just  before  elections,  however,  he 
would  act  quite  cordial,  shaking  hands  with  the 
yeomanry,  and  picking  imaginary  lint  off  the 
shoulders  of  the  people  whose  votes  he  could  use. 
After  election— that  was  another  matter. 


A    WORD  ABOUT  MR.  DANTE. 


He  would  ignore  everybody  as  he  passed  them, 
talking  to  himself  in  deep  abstraction,  his  long 
chin  working  like  a  jig-saw,  and  his  eyes  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left.  Enemies  sprang  up 
about  him  in  great  numbers.  The  formidable 
dagger  of  the  destroyer  of  peace  and  the  assassin 
of  happiness  seemed  ubiquitous.  At  one  time, 
about  1291,  we  see  him  fighting  with  a  Florentine 
constable,  who  has  interceded  in  a  family  quarrel. 
At  another,  about  1301,  he  is  rolling  around  in 
front  of  a  throne  in  a  frenzied  clinch  with  a  Roman 
pope.  And  then,  again,  we  see  him  chased  into 
exile.  So  it  went  through  life.  Three  diurnal 
quarrels  was  a  small  average.  Kings  and  queens, 
popes,  family  doctors,  wife's  relations,  yea,  innu 
merable  foes,  seemed  to  conspire  against  him  and 
make  his  life  one  long,  fretful  race  with  adversity. 

But  he  got  even.  He  wrote  Hell  and  consigned 
his  enemies — wife's  relations  and  all — along  with 
Judas,  Cain,  Ugolino  and  the  whole  motley  throng, 
to  an  infamous  immortality.  The  men  who  differed 


from  him,  politically  or  religiously,  were  hurled 
head-first  along  with  the  young  man  who  played 
the  piccolo  opposite  the  Dante  homestead.  Five 
hundred  years  have  passed.  Men  and  women  have 
been  just  as  bad  since  that  time.  Nuisances  have 
abounded  to  make  life  just  as  miserable  as  in  those 
days  of  yore. 

What  do  we  do?  We  shy  valuable  bric-a-brac 
at  a  cornet  fiend.  We  curse  a  chronic  book  bor 
rower.  We  feel  a  malicious  desire  to  give  a  society 
bore  a  long,  lingering  kick.  Pessimism  we  hate. 
But  of  what  avail  is  all  this?  To  follow  the  pre 
cedent  laid  down  by  Dante  seems  never  to  have 
occurred  to  any  one.  In  this  book,  however, 
we  have  revived  the  old  retaliatory  method  adopted 
by  the  immortal  poet.  But  the  principal  reason 
for  this  second  exploration  was  to  learn  if  the 
region  of  fire  was  the  same  as  of  old,  or  whether 
it  kept  pace  with  the  triumphal  march  of  progress. 

The  author  found  it  right  in  line.  Even  Hell  is 
now  run  on  the  broad,  American  plan. 


THE  LATE  MR.  DANTE,  OF  ITALY. 

[From  a  picture  supposed  to  have  been  made  just  after  his  return  from  the  infernai  Regions.] 


MR.  DANTE'S  SUCCESSOR   FALLS  OFF  A  FAST-MOVING  TRAIN. 

'Overhead  a  ghostly  night-wind  ploughed  through  the  tree-tops  and  wailed  and  sobbed  like  a  lost  spirit. 


THE   MAIN   ENTRANCE. 

"I  resolutely  repressed  all  fears  aud  passed  down  to  the  entrance.1 


Hell  up 


to  Date. 


1'HAD  been  assigned  by  the  managing  editor  of 
an  Eastern  journal  to  "write  up"  an  illustrated 
article  upon  the  "typical  American  city."  it  was 
at  the  time  when  there  was  an  obvious  yearning  on 
the  part  of  the  public  for  articles  relating  to  a  large 
Western  metropolis  which  typified,  more  than  any 
other,  the  true  spirit  of  modern  progress. 

I  was  told  to  note  particularly  this  city's  modern 
improvements — the  cable  lines,  the  high  buildings, 
its  system  of  electric  intercourse  between  man  and 
man,  the  character  of  its  people  and  their  business 
enterprise.  Above  all,  I  was  to  treat  them  with 
absolute  fairness. 

At  about  8  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  second 
day  of  my  journey  from  the  East  I  went  to  the 
dining-car  and  ate  a  hearty  meal— a  meal  of 
the  kind  that  incites  a  feeble  stomach  to  rise  and 
mutiny.  Coming  back,  I  sat  down  and  began 


reading  a  favorite  book,  which  I  had  brought  to 
while  away  the  time.  The  book  was  Dante's 
"Inferno."  Often  I  had  scanned  its  artful  illus 
trations  by  Dore,  but  never  had  I  read  the  verse. 
I  now  read  canto  after  canto  of  the  Florentine 
poet's  tales  about  the  condemned  souls.  After  the 
story  of  Paola  and  Francesca,  interest  no  longer 
held  me,  and  I  closed  the  book,  leaned  back  and 
began  to  muse  over  all  that  I  had  read.  Then  I 
thought  of  my  assignment,  how  I  would  treat  the 
subject,  and  what  I  would  sketch.  What  with 
thoughts  of  modern  buildings,  of  cable  roads,  of 
arch-heretics  in  their  fiery  tombs,  of  slot- 
machines  and  gibbering  ghosts,  of  swift- 
running  elevators  and  headless  spirits,  of  . 
electric  lights  and  Adam's  evil  brood  gulping  /. 
the  blood  of  Styx,  my  mind  was  truly  in  ai 
chaotic  state.  Easily  these  thoughts  mingled  ' 


A   NIGP1TMARE  DREAM— ON   THE   WAY   TO  HELL. 


and  wove  themselves  as  I  drowsily  cast  all  else 
from  me  and  gave  myself  over  to  the  mercies  of  a 
nightmare  dream. 

Methought 

I  was  taken  off  my  guard  as  the  train  came  to  a 
curve  in  the  track,  and  suddenly  found  myself  lying 
prone  by  the  roadside.  On  either  side  there 
stretched  a  trackless  forest,  a  screaming  wilder 
ness,  a  wild  desolation.  Overhead  a  ghostly  night 
wind  ploughed  through  the  tree-tops  and  wailed 
and  sobbed  like  a  lost  spirit.  Amidst  a  whizzing 
of  unseen  bats  and  the  hoots  of  melancholy  owls, 
I  arose,  and,  combing  the  gravel  out  of  my  auburn 
locks,  set  forth  in  a  southeasterly  direction. 
Through  briars  and  bushes,  over  prickly  plants 
and  vines  that  laced  together  like  a  tangled  knot 
of  serpents,  down  deep  chasms  and  black  ravines, 
I  stumbled  toward  The  Unseen.  When  my  emotion 
had  abated  a  little  I  found  myself  alone  in  the 
heart  of  a  forest  whose  trees  were  so  thickly 
crowded  together  that  the  air  was  dense  and  hard 
to  breathe. 


Down  through  the  curdled  gloom  I  wandered, 
clambering  over  huge  rocks  till  I  came  to  a  project 
ing  precipice,  from  which  I  peered  and  discerned  a 
dim  light  through  the  steam  and  smoke  that  arose 
sluggishly  from  below. 

Presently  I  heard  indistinct  voices.  As  I  crawled 
down  lower,  words  became  audible.  "Show  your 
tickets!"  "There!  Stop  crowdin'!"  "  Git  off  the 
platform!"  and  other  exclamations  came  to  my  ears. 

What  can  all  this  mean?  Am  I  dreaming? 
Smells  like  sulphur!  What's  that  black  hole? 
Those  men  with  wings?  What — and  then  it 
dawned  like  a  revelation.  This  is  the  Hell  of 
Dante.  Hades!  Think  of  it!  I'll  interview  Satan. 
What  a  scoop!  And  I  nearly  lost  my  hold  on  the 
rock  at  the  thought  of  such  an  opportunity. 

"Ice  seventy -five  cents  a  chunk!  Fans  very 
cheap!"  What  a  pandemonium  ! 

Still  I  clambered  downward,  trying  each  moment 
to  increase  my  speed  (a  desire  which  is  said  to  take 
hold  of  any  one  who  once  starts  toward  Hell), 
apparently  urged  on  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 


MR.  SATAN'S   PRIVATE   OFFICE. 

'"Howd}1,  Sate,'  said  I,  with  an  attempt  at  bravado." 


i6 


THE  MAIN  ENTRANCE. 


At  last  I  swung  out  from  an  overhanging  rock, 
and  dropped.  A  terrible  howl  went  up  as  I  fell  in 
the  midst  of  a  throng  of  demons,  fakirs  and  em 
ployes  of  the  realm. 

I  rushed  into  an  animated  crowd  to  the  left  of  the 
entrance,  chased  by  swift-footed  demons.  Here, 
fortunately,  I  was  lost  to  my  tormentors. 

I  looked  about  to  see  what  this  heterogeneous 
throng  might  be. 

They  were  new  arrivals.  They  had  just  whirled 
in  on  the  last  train  and  were  getting  overcoats 
checked,  and  making  such  final  preparations  as 
would  best  suit  them  for  this  sudden  change  of 
climate.  This  last  privilege  is  allowed  to  all. 

As  it  seemed  to  be  the  proper  thing,  I  accord 
ingly  set  about  "trying  on,"  and,  finally,  found  a 
suit  which,  though  falling  far  short  of  enhancing 
my  charms,  seemed  quite  good  enough  for  the 
place. 

Then  purchasing  a  palm-leaf  fan  at  a  price 
which  in  any  other  country  would  have  made 

V   it  a  prohibited  luxury,  I  resolutely  repressed 


all  fears  and   passed  down  to  the  en 
trance.     Over  the  portal's  lofty  arch 
were  written  those  terrible  words: 


"  LEAVE  ALL  HOPE  ON  THE  OUTSIDE." 


This  demand  I  would  not  entirely  accede  to.  I 
kept  a  little.  I  thought  I  would  need  it  later  on. 

A  kind  of  goblin-janitor  stood  at  the  entrance 
and  expressed  himself  as  opposed  to  my  entering. 
I  could  not  understand  this,  but  have  since  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  janitor  thought  I  be 
longed  to  the  other  place.  It  was  not  till  I  told 
him  that  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Satan 
from  a  certain  renowned  skeptic  that  he  acquiesced, 
and  I  walked  down  into  the  city  of  woe. 

On  passing  through  the  outer  corridor  or  cavern, 
a  low  mutter,  as  of  thunder,  which  grew  louder  and 
louder  as  I  advanced,  shook  the  region.  A  train- 
load  of  souls  came  screaming  through  the  gloom. 
I  stepped  aside  and  let  them  pass.  They  crossed 
a  new  cantilever  suspension  bridge  and  came  to  a 


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AN  INTERVIEW   WITH  MR.  SATAN. 


stop.  The  passengers  stepped  out  and  were  driven 
around  to  the  place  of  registry,  where  they  wrote 
their  names  and  addresses  in  a  large  book. 

This  book  is  very  interesting.  It  contains  the 
autograph  of  every  sin-soaked  mortal  that  ever 
died. 

Down  in  the  corner,  where  tear-drops  had 
stained  the  leaves  a  deep  yellow,  I  recognized  the 
familiar  autograph  of  an  old  sinner  and  neighbor 
of  mine  who  used  to  put  ashes  on  his  sidewalk 
where  I  wanted  to  skate.  I  tried  to  feel  regretful 
for  him,  but  I  couldn't. 

My  first  object  was  to  see  Mr.  Satan,  have  an 
interview  with  him  and,  if  possible,  get  a  few  hints 
on  the  whereabouts  of  the  most  interesting  sights 
in  his  world-famed  hot-bed  of  human  woe. 

After  asking  several  hired  demons  with  long 
pitchforks  where  I  could  find  "the  old  man"  (as 
they  facetiously  call  him)  and  receiving  no  response, 
save  rude  jeers  and  quick  thrusts  at  my  anatomy, 
I  concluded  to  hunt  him  myself. 

Following   the   direction  of  a  signboard  which 


pointed  toward  a  long,  steep  ascent  of  rugged  rock, 
I  was  soon  standing  before  an  arched  doorway 
where  swung  to  the  hot  breeze  the  inscription: 


"MR.  SATAN'S  PRIVATE  OFFICE." 


Here  I  paused  a  moment  and  debated  in  my 
mind  as  to  the  best  method  of  procedure,  whether 
to  approach  with  abject  humility  and  beg  to  be 
heard,  or  affect  an  air  of  jaunty  familiarity.  I  de 
cided  to  play  the  latter  role,  as  best  befitting  the 
occasion,  for  has  not  some  wise  man  written:  "He 
who  would  grapple  with  the  Devil  must  show  a 
fearless  front "? 

I  walked  in. 

"Howdy,  Sate,"  said  I,  with  an  attempt  at 
bravado. 

He  wheeled  suddenly  around  in  his  big  office 
chair.  When  his  eyes  fell  on  me  and  he  had  looked 
me  all  over  he  leaned  back,  and,  with  a  look  as  if 
stupefied  at  the  effrontery,  said  slowly: 


A   DELECTABLE   PASTIME. 
"He  escapes  the  grinding  cares  and    -orry  oi  business  very  agreeably." 


20 


AN  INTERVIEW   WITH  MR.   SATAN. 


"Well,  I'll  be 


r 


"Tell  you  how  it  is,"  said  I,  cutting  him  short, 
and  walking  up  near  to  present  my  card.  "I've 
just  come  down  to  look  your  place  over.  If  every 
thing  is  satisfactory  I  may  settle  here  some  time  in 
the  sweet  by-and-by.  You  see,  it's  this  way,"  I 
continued,  shifting  my  position,  and  coaxing  up  a 
more  serious  expression;  "there  seems  to  be  a 
wrong  impression  on  earth  as  to  just  how  your 
place  is  run.  Since  Mr.  Dante  wrote  up  the 
place  it  has  been  in  very  bad  repute.  People 
are  not  aware  that  you  have  introduced  modern 
improvements  and  that  your  region  has  under 
gone  a  complete  revolution.  What  you  need 
is  advertising,  if  you  want  an  increase  in  business, 
say,  six  columns — illustrations,  full  length  portrait 
of  yourself,  and  such  facts  as  will  correct  certain 
erroneous  reports  current  in  the  world  concerning 
your  personality,  and  — 

"Find  a  lump  of  ice  and  sit  down," 

said  he,  "I'll  attend  to  your  case  in  a 

minute." 


Then  he  turned  away  to  answer  a  telephone  call. 
As  he  did  so,  I  heard  him  say  something  about  the 
"arrogance  and  effrontery  of  those  newspaper 
fellows." 

From  the  back  window  of  his  office  I  gazed 
down  on  a  sweeping  view  of  Hell,  which  now 
seemed  raging  with  terrible  fury. 

Thousands  of  telegraph  wires  and  pneumatic 
tubes  diverged  from  this  central  office  to  all  points 
in  the  region. 

The  merry  tinkle  of  the  typewriter  could  be 
heard  in  an  adjoining  room.  Just  opposite  on  a 
hill  stood  the  great  sulphur  works. 

As  soon  as  he  had  discontinued  the  telephone 
conversation,  which,  I  inferred  from  his  questions 
and  answers,  was  held  with  a.  woman  in  the  female 
department  who  wanted  a  looking-glass  to  do  up 
her  hair,  he  turned  his  attention  to  me. 

I  give,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  personal 
remarks,  the  whole  of  my  interview  with  this 
notorious  "arch-enemy  of  mankind." 


u 


AN  INTERVIEW   WITH  MR.   SATAN. 


"Mr.  Satan,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  that  would 
quaver,  despite  all  efforts  at  bravery,  "do  you 
never  worry  over  the  thought  that,  some  time,  those 
Eastern  capitalists  may  band  together  when  they 
get  here,  grab  up  all  your  successful  enterprises, 
form  a  trust  and  crowd  you  to  the  wall?  It  strikes 
me  they  could  put  in  refrigerators,  fire  escapes, 
rotary  fans,  hand  grenades,  and  make  themselves 
pretty  comfortable  if  they  had  control." 

"Now,  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Satan,  "come 
here  to  me."  And,  seizing  me  by  the  cravat,  he 
pulled  me  close  to  his  desk  and  took  down  the 
telephone.  "Give  me  four-aught-six/' he  cried. 
A  moment  elapsed,  and  I  heard  a  voice  that  sug 
gested  a  boiled  wind-pipe  creep  through  the  'phone. 

"Wha'  d'  you  want?"  said  the   voice. 

"Is  this  the  department  of  monopolists?" 
queried  Mr.  Satan. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  voice. 

"Now,  young  man,  "said  Mr.  Satan,  turning  to 
me,  "put  your  ear  close  to  this  telephone."  I 
obeyed. 


"Hear  that  sizzling  and  sputtering  like  the 
noise  of  frying  liver?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so!" 

"Hear  the  groans?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Well,  those  are  the  capitalists  who  have  come 
down  here  with  the  intention  of  running  things. 
They  changed  their  minds."  And  Mr.  Satan  drew 
himself  down  in  his  coat  collar  and  chuckled. 

"Pretty  hot  down  here,"  said  I,  running  my 
handkerchief  around  between  my  neck  and  collar. 

"We  don't  have  much  sleighing  weather,  that's 
true,"  he  replied. 

"I  suppose,"  I  continued,  "you  run  across  any 
number  of  cranks — fellows  with  ideas  for  improving 
Hell." 

"Oh,  yes,  many  of  them.  Some  good  ideas, 
too.  Of  course,  improvements  in  the  modes  of  pun 
ishment  are  offered  —  usually  by  individuals  in 
whose  bosoms  the  spirit  of  jealousy  is  still  rankling ; 
but  that  makes  no  difference  to  us  so  long  as  the 


CROSSING   THE   STYX 

'It  is,  nevertheless,  an  impressive  sight  to  watch  the  Birdie  as  she  sails  out  from  the  pier. 


24 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MR.   SATAN. 


invention  is  good.  St.  Louis  people,  for  instance, 
come  to  me  with  ideas  for  punishing  Chicagoans. 
Brooklyn  people  worry  a  great  deal  because  they 
think  New  Yorkers  don't  get  their  just  deserts.  A 
short  time  ago  an  ingenious  Yankee  from  some 
where  down  near  Worcester  got  leave  of  absence 
from  his  punishment  and  came  to  me  with  an  idea 
for  a  thermometer  that  would  hop  around  and  chase 
spirits.  He  had  also  designed  a  plan  for  a  kind  of 
battering-ram  to  punish  a  neighbor  of  his  who  had 
beaten  him  in  a  horse  trade.  He  was  sure  he 
would  be  along  soon,  as  he  had  been  on  the  way 
to  Hell  for  forty-six  years." 

"  I  see  you  have  an  electric  railway  down  here," 
said  I,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  Sure,"  said  his  royal  highness.  "If  you  can  sit 
on  a  cushion  of  sharp  tacks  you  can  ride  on  those 
electric  cars  all  over  the  region;  and  yet,"  he  con 
tinued,  with  a  sudden  melancholy,  "and  yet  some 
people  are  dissatisfied." 

"Mr.  Satan,"  said  I,  meantime  keeping  an  e}e 
on  Cerberus,  the  three-headed  dog,  who  sat  wrink 


ling  up  his  three  noses  in  a  way  that  made  me  ill 
at  ease,  "you  certainly  must  keep  up  a  lively  inter 
est  in  what  is  going  on  in  Paradise.  Suppose  you 
have  telegraphic  connections?" 

"Yes,  sir,  through  line  right  to  the  gate." 
•'Then  you  are  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  St. 
Peter." 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly.  You  see,  I  would  much 
prefer  having  one  of  my  own  men  in  charge  at  that 
end  of  the  line.  Now,  this  man  St.  Peter  has  been 
taking  in  tickets  at  the  gate  ever  since  time  began, 
and  he's  grown  careless.  Why,  I've  heard  of  sev 
eral  instances  where  some  of  those  sleek  Denver 
people  have  sneaked  in  under  the  clouds  while  the 
old  man  was  polishing  his  spectacles.  Now,  any 
body  can  see  that  he  is  incompetent.  However, 
he  often  sends  me  some  splendid  sinners.  Only  a 
short  time  ago  he  telegraphed  down  to  know  if  I 
would  take  a  Boston  woman  who  had  just  arrived 
and  was  dissatisfied  with 
the  place.  Not  long  ago 


he  sent   a   party  of    six 


xAr£ 

V         Ij       ~* 
L       /pi  i,  7*)*v 

^A  *£ 

"^f*" 


JUDGE   MINOS'  COURT-ROOM. 

'When  the  ill-fated  soul  stands  before  this  Supreme  Court  he  confesses  all." 


26 


AN  INTERVIEW   WITH  MR.   SATAN. 


disgusted  mortals  who  wouldn't  stay  in  a  place 
where  the  pleasure  of  playing  whist  was  denied 
them.  These  are  favors  for  which  I  am  grateful, 
but  it  stands  to  reason  that  a  man  like  St.  Peter, 
old  and  gouty,  with  rheumatism  in  his  wings  and  a 
faulty  memory,  should  be  placed  on  the  pension 
list." 

"They  say  on  earth,  Mr.  Satan,  that 
people  from  Texas  always  telegraph  back 
for  their  winter  clothes." 
"Yes,  that  was  true,"  he  replied,  "but  we 
put  a  stop  to  it.     We  can't  show  favors  to 
people  from  a  state  that  has  always  tried 
to  run  in  opposition  to  this  place." 
"Have  you  any  such  thing  as  a  guide  book?" 
I  asked. 

Mr.  Satan  here  lifted  a  neat  volume  from  his 
desk,  remarking: 

"  Here  is  a  little  book  I  had  printed  for  my  em 
ployes.  You  will  find  it  a  great  help  to  you  in 
getting  around.  It  contains  a  map  of  Hell  with 
all  the  different  departments  located.  But  you 


had  better  see  Captain  Charon,  the  pilot.     He  can 
give  you  some  valuable  information." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  putting  on  my  hat. 

After  asking  me  about  several  of  his  friends  in 
the  United  States  Senate  and  the  Wisconsin  State 
Legislature,  and  expressing  his  earnest  regrets  that 
they  didn't  die  faster,  he  arose,  and  I  understood 
that  the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  I.      "  Good  day." 

"So  long,"  said  Mr.  Satan. 

I  took  a  good  look  at  him  as  he  stood  there  in 
all  his  majestic  splendor.  The  "Devil,"  as  I  saw 
him,  appeared  to  be  above  medium  height,  had 
horns,  cloven  feet,  a  long  tail,  and  was  dark  of 
skin.  But  as  some  one  else  remarked:  "  He  is 
not  nearly  as  black  as  sometimes  painted." 

His  tail,  which,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  was 
broken  off  in  an  exciting  fight  with  a  man  who 
would  get  religion  every  winter  and  lose  it  every 
spring,  had  been  spliced,  and,  judging  from  the 
dexterity  with  which  he  handled  it,  was  as  good 
as  new. 


THE    POLITICAL   CARICATURISTS. 
Looking  down  what  appeared  to  be  an  interminable  hallway,  I  saw  caricatures  in  varieg-ated  colors." 


28 


THE   CAREER    OF  CAPTAIN  CHARON. 


He  wears  a  shining  high  hat,  buttons  his  coat 
on  the  wrong  side  and  smokes  cigarettes. 

The  fishing  is  not  good  in  Hell.  Consequently 
Mr.  Satan  never  goes  fishing.  At  times,  however, 
he  feels  the  need  of  a  little  recreation,  and  then 
he  escapes  the  grinding  cares  and  worry  of  busi 
ness  very  agreeably.  Leaving  the  office  in  the 
care  of  an  understudy,  he  selects  a  long-handled 
frying-pan  from  the  warehouse  and  takes  a  brisk 
walk  of  three  miles  to  the  lake  of  fire.  A  large 
crate  filled  to  the  brim  with  a  varied  assortment  of 
sinners  stands  by  this  lake  for  Mr.  Satan's  private 
use.  Mr.  Satan  opens  the  crate,  removes  one, 
puts  him  in  the  pan  and  toasts  him  over  the  fire, 
basting  him  meantime  with  tabasco  sauce  and  vit 
riol.  This  is  a  pleasant  pastime — for  Satan. 

As  a  shining  example  of  the  kind  of  men  who, 
though  brusque  and  coarse,  have  keen  business 
qualities  combined  with  deep,  untiring  zeal  and  a 
certain  amount  of  magnetism,  I  would  cite  old 
Captain  Charon,  who  began  his  career  as  ferryman 


with  a  little  tub  of  a  row-boat,  hardly  large 
enough  to  hold  a  college  professor,  but  who  now 
runs  a  large  side-wheeler,  double-decked  and 
fitted  out  with  all  modern  improvements.  The 
Captain  is  full  of  reminiscences  and,  withal,  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  personages 
who  lend  their  services  to  the  welfare  of  this  sub 
terranean  city.  Towering  up  like  a  grotesque 
totem  pole,  some  seven  feet,  with  large,  pliable 
features,  a  yard  or  more  of  wind-kissed  whiskers, 
a  mouth  as  firm  as  a  steel  trap,  and  a  voice 
(though  tainted  with  a  Bowery  accent)  loud  and 
deep,  he  certainly  is  a  man  to  move  the  masses, 
and  he  does  move  them— by  the  boat-load. 

I  met  the  Captain  at  the  boat-landing  as  his 
craft  was  taking  on  a  load  of  passengers. 

"Mr.  Charon,  I  believe,"  said  I,  walking  up 
after  he  had  finished  giving  orders  to  a  deck-hand. 

<; That's  me  name,"  he  roared.  Methought  I 
had  never  heard  such  a  voice  before. 

"Well,"  I  murmured,  modestly,  "Mr.  Satan 
said  I  had  better  have  a  talk  with  you.  Now,  will 


THE    LIMITED   EXPRESS. 
"  They  had  a  hard  time  hanging-  on.' 


THE  CAREER  OF  CAPTAIN  CHARON. 


you  tell  me,  Captain,  how  long  you  have  been  pi 
lot  down  here  ?  " 

lie  paused  a  minute  and  answered,  "Ever 
since  dey  had  de  opening — about  de  year  one,  I 
should  tink." 

"Then  you've  piloted  a  great  many  people 
across  this  river." 

"Yer  dead  right." 

"  Don't  you  find  them  hard  to  manage  some 
times?" 

"Well,  yer  see  it's  dis  way:  If  dey  don't  like 
our  style  dey  gits  out  and  swims;  see?  De  blokes 
from  Minneapolis  won't  ride  wid  de  St.  Paul  fel 
lers,  so  dey  knows  what  dey  can  do."  Then  he 
rambled  on  in  his  ingenuous  way,  and  told  me  how 
they  found  it  necessary  to  put  sinners  from  Yank- 
ton,  Cheyenne,  Leadville,  Laramie  City  and  Walla 
Walla  down  in  the  steerage,  where  they  could  for 
get  what  cuspidors  are  for  and  swear  with  im 
punity. 

There  is  every  evidence  that  the  Captain  is 
sick  of  his  job.  The  harrow  of  care  has  cross- 


hatched  his  weather-beaten  face  with  innumerable 
furrows. 

When  he  moved  about  he  would  keep  close  to 
a  rail  or  rock,  that  he  might  feel  in  touch  with 
something  of  firmer  substance  than  himself. 

"  Captain,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  want  to  detain  you, 
but  will  you  tell  me  what  slow-moving,  bewhisk- 
ered  crowd  that  is,  coming  down  this  way?  "  He 
leveled  his  telescope  in  the  direction  of  the  throng. 
"  Dem's  St.  Louis  fellers,"  he  said.  "We've  had 
tree  boat-loads  of  nothin'  but  St.  Louis  people  in 
de  las'  week." 

As  he  stepped  toward  the  gang-plank,  about  to 
ascend,  it  was  plain  to  me  that  existence  had  but 
few  charms  for  him. 

The  Captain  has  an  enviable  reputation  in  Hell 
as  the  keenest  observer  of  any  of  Satan's  trusted 
employes.  It  is  said  no  one  has  ever  yet  walked 
the  gang-plank  of  his  boat  whose  earthly  home 
was  not  known  by  his  personal  appearance,  though 
many  of  the  new  immigrants  refused  to  disclose 
their  identity. 


NO   HILARITY  AMONG  THE  TAILORS. 

A  place  where  the  thermometer  continually  overleaps  all  laws  of  decorum. 


CAPTAIN  CffARONS  REVELATIONS— SAILING   UP  THE  STYX. 


I  gathered  from  one  of  the  pier  policemen,  who 
is  also  quite  an  adept,  a  few  hints  as  to  how  the 
Captain  identifies  people  so  easily. 

The  Boston  man  will  toe-in  and  roll  his  spectacled 
eyes  like  a  calf  that  has  swallowed  a  summer  squash. 

Brooklyn  men  wear  side-whiskers  and  walk  with 
their  arms  outstretched,  as  if  in  the  act  of  wheel 
ing  spectral  baby-carriages. 

Those  from  Vermont,  and,  more  particularly, 
those  from  Rutland,  of  that  State,  invariably  give 
themselves  away  by  saying.  "This  is  turrible,  this 
is  turrible,"  with  an  accent  on  the  "  tur  "  and  a  deep 
nasal  twang. 

New  York  City  folks  are  easily  recognized  by 
their  air  of  conscious  superiority. 

Men  from  Portland,  Oregon,  keep  their  boots  on 
and  swear  fervently  all  the  time. 

Rochester  men  have  a  hen-pecked  look,  and 
seem  apathetic.  Apparently  they  don't  care  much 
whether  they  are  in  Hell  or  back  home. 

Chattanooga  men  have  to  be  shaken  up  and 
prodded  every  minute,  or  they  fall  asleep. 


A  man  from  Texas  will  keep  his  hand  behind 
him,  as  if  to  draw  a  pistol. 

Washington  men  walk  around  with  an  anxious 
look,  and  ask  everybody  if  all  the  sinecures  of  the 
place  have  been  spoken  for. 

And  thus  the  life's  habit  of  each  individual 
breaks  out  in  some  way  and  plainly  stamps  his 
identity. 

The  Styx  is  the  only  navigable  river  in  Hell. 
The  stench  wafted  from  this  river  was  best  de 
scribed  by  a  sinner  whom  I  met  on  the  pier.  He 
said:  "It  smells  to  Heaven."  From  Inferno  to 
Paradise  is  a  long  way,  but  this  odor  is  equal  to  it. 
Captain  Charon's  boat,  the  "  Birdie,"  makes  the 
run  from  shore  to  shore  in  just  fifteen  minutes.  It 
carries  five  hundred  souls,  provided  they  will  let 
their  feet  hang  over,  and  put  up  with  cramped  ac 
commodations.  On  board  is  an  orchestra  of  two 
pieces — a  bass  horn  and  an  accordeon,  which  emits 
sorrowful  wails  that  echo  and  re-echo  through  the 
region,  curling  up  the  doomed  at  every  echo;  in 
deed,  no  torture  in  Hell  is  quite  so  poignant  as  that 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   MASHERS. 

"  '  Now,  be  dumb,'  said  I.     '  I  have  your  name.' 


34 


BEFORE    THE  BAR   OF  JUDGE   MINOS. 


provided  by  this  band  when  it  gets  fairly  in  motion. 
The  players  have  only  one  selection — "After  the 
Ball  "  — and  the  cries  of  the  damned,  while  this  is 
being  played,  are  heart-rending.  It  is,  neverthe 
less,  an  impressive  sight  to  watch  the  "  Birdie  "  as 
she  sails  out  from  the  pier,  the  band  playing  lus 
tily,  and  the  grand  old  Captain  standing  on  the  roof 
of  the  pilot-house,  with  nothing  on  but  a  mackin 
tosh  and  a  pair  of  gaiters,  as  he  scans  the  bosom 
of  the  deep.  He  is  much  annoyed  when  peddlers 
come  wading  out  to  meet  the  boat  with  suspen 
ders  and  collar-buttons. 

I  now  came  suddenly  co  the  tragic  scene  where 
Judge  Minos  reigns  supreme.  Here  each  sinner  is 
brought  before  the  bar,  to  answer  for  his  earthly 
crimes.  Far  up  the  mountain  side,  arranged  di 
rectly  in  front  of  the  Judge,  in  rows  of  hundreds, 
and  extending  as  far  as  the  human  eye  could  reach, 
was  the  vast  army  of  naked  souls  awaiting  their 
turn  to  be  judged.  Below  was  a  row  from  Chi 
cago;  next,  a  row  from  Cincinnati;  another  row 
was  reserved  for  people  from  Oshkosh;  another, 


for  those  from  Kalamazoo.  Still  others  surmount 
ed  these,  extending  upward,  tier  on  tier,  till  the 
murk  of  the  fog  cloud  kissed  the  bald  heads  of  a 
row  from  the  little  city  of  Ephratah,  Pennsylvania. 
When  the  ill  fated  soul  stands  before  this  supreme 
court,  he  confesses  all — aye,  everything — and  the 
Judge  thoughtfully  considers  what  place  in  Hell 
suits  the  transgression.  A  small,  weak  kneed  sin 
ner  was  led  mumbling  to  trial  as  I  approached. 
"Well,  what  have  you  to  say?"  asked  the  Judge, 
in  a  loud,  consequential  tone  of  voice. 

"Yer  Honor,"  said  the  poor  wretch,  "I'll  be 
honest  with  you.  I  was,  while  on  earth,  traveling 
for  a " 

"Enough  said,"  growled  the  Judge.  "Officer, 
take  this  drummer  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice, 
and  hurl  him  plumb  to  the  bottom."  .  .  .  Shortly 
afterward,  I  heard  a  crash.  I  knew  that  one  more 
soul  had  struck  the  frying-pan  of  eternal  doom. 

[NOTE.— Judg-e  Minos,  according  to  Dante,  at  one  time  had  a 
peculiar  method  of  administering- justice.  In  the  fifth  cantoof  "The 
Divine  Comedy"  the  author  describes  how  the  renowned  Judge 
would  encircle  himself  with  his  long-,  arrow-pointed  tail,  as  many 
times  as  degrees  he  wished  the  sinner  to  descend.  This  quiet  though 
unique  way  of  informing'  a  man  of  his  fate  worked  all  right  for 


THE    LAWYERS. 
'No  plaint  was  heard  here;  nothing  but  deep-heaved  sighs." 


36 


THE  POLITICAL    CARICATURIST, 


THE    INVENTOR    OF    THE    BARB-WIRE    FENCE. 


ordinary  malefactors;  but  the  Judg-e  found  himself  utterly  impotent 
to  express  in  this  way  the  depths  to  which  he  would  have  such  as 
"chronic  kickers"  consigned. 

To  sentence  these,  he  would  take  in  all  the  slack,  pull  and  wind 
and  wind  and  pull  till  exhausted.  It  is  said  his  "sentence  pro- 
nouncer"  was  broken  off  in  this  way.  Too  much  strain.  At  any 
rate,  he  is  now  "minos"  (comic  papers  please  note)  a  tail,  and  ad 
ministers  justice  according'  to  modern  methods. 

Just  across  the  bridge  of  the  Lethe  there  lies  a 
small  territory  where  may  be  found  the  wretched 
souls  of  the  political  caricaturists. 

On  first  sight  I  was  attracted  by  the  novelty  of 
huge  easels  at  which  demons  were  drawing  pictures. 

The  souls  themselves  I  found,  on  approaching 
closer,  to  be  strangely  distorted,  and  so  grotesque 
and  ludicrous  that  I  might  have  laughed  outright 
had  not  deep  pity  moved  me  to  serious  thought. 

Looking  down  what  appeared  to  be  an  intermin 
able  hallway,  I  saw  caricatures  in  variegated  colors 
hanging  before  these  individuals. 

Then  only  I  learned  the  piteous  truth.  The 
demon  cartoonist  first  makes  a  caricature  of  his 
victim;  then  the  victim  is  pulled  and  twisted,  rolled 
and  kneaded,  until  he  resembles  in  every  way  the 
demon's  fanciful  conception.  Through  all  time 
thereafter  he  looks  at  his  own  picture. 


A   BALL   GAME. 

'  Never   until  ibis  time,  had/the  sinners  known  a  single  hour's  respite  from  torture." 


THE  LIMITED  EXPRESS. 


HE    PLAYED    THE    CORNET. 


As  I  still  journeyed  downward,  I  looked  up  and 
beheld,  coming  down  the  steep  grade  of  a  most  un 
comfortable-looking  corduroy  road,  a  train-load 
of  howling  souls.  The  engine  yelled  as  if  it 
were  being  tortured,  and  the  owls  on  the  tele 
graph  wires  flapped  their  wings  and  darted  off  in 
all  directions.  The  coaches  were  crowded  to  over 
flowing,  for  those  who  did  not  arrive  early  and 
avoid  the  rush  had  to  sit  on  the  roof,  where  they 
had  a  hard  time  hanging  on.  As  soon  as  the  ter 
rible  noise  had  died  away,  I  collected  my  senses 
and  stumbled  on  down  the  rocks,  preferring  this 
method  of  descent  to  taking  an  elevator.  I  wanted 
to  see  everything. 

This  train,  I  afterward  learned,  was  the  limited 
express,  which  makes  flying  trips  to  the  bottomless 
pit,  carrying  all  sorts  of  sinners,  from  "the  man 
who  goes  out  between  the  acts  at  the  theater  "  to 
real  estate  sharks. 

Hard  by  sat  the  man  who  is  responsible  for  the 
treacherous  barb-wire  fence,  which  now  covers  the 
otherwise  free  country  of  America.  His  lot  is  not 


KEY-HOLE   REPORTERS. 

L,ike  patient  oxen  in  their  stalls," 


THE   LAZY    MAN    AT   WORK. 

"  A  task  of  perpetual  shoveling." 


THE  INVENTOR   OF  THE  BARB-  WIRE  FENCE— THE  CORNET  FIEND. 


THE    UMBRELLA    BORROWER. 


a  pleasant  one.  He  sits  forever  on  his  own  fence 
and  fritters  away  the  spare  moments  thinking  of 
what  might  have  been. 

Off  in  a  corner,  all  by  himself,  seated  on  the 
point  of  a  ridge,  I  discovered  this  infamy  of  human 
kind,  the  cornet  fiend.  There  the  malefactor  cow 
ered,  while  at  his  side  a  huge  horn  belched  forth 
such  Wagnerian  noises  as  nearly  stunned  the 
senses.  At  the  mouth-piece  of  the  horn,  demons 
worked  a  huge  bellows  Eternally,  forever  and 
aye  they  pumped,  while  the  brass  Vesuvius  poured 
forth  job-lot  sonatas  and  the  wretch  vainly  wished 
for  deafness. 

Sometimes  I  would  catch  a  strain  from  "The 
Carnival  of  Venice,"  sometimes  a  few  notes  from 
"The  Maiden's  Prayer,"  and  again  a  little  wad 
from  "Johnny,  Get  Your  Gun."  It  would  seem 
that  any  one  of  these  melodies,  played  singly  and 
alone,  would  have  been  torture  enough  for  one 
poor  soul.  Played  together  in  a  grand  free-for- 
all,  catch-as-catch-can  pot-pourri,  it  was  simply 
horrible.  I  turned  and  wept. 


THE   EDITORS. 

•'  No  wonder  these  baskets  of  human-kind  heave  and  toss." 


THE   UMBRELLA   BORROWER— THE  SELFISH  HUSBAND. 


Nothing,  it  seems,  is  too  severe  for  the  man 
who  will  steal,  and  particularly  the  man  who  takes 
your  umbrella  and  never  brings  it  back.  Chained 
to  a  barren  rock  in  the  middle  of  a  mud  lake  I  saw 
this  fiend  sit,  mired  in  misery,  as  it  were,  while  he 
clutched  the  remnant  of  an  umbrella  and  the  rain 
descended  in  torrents. 

It  rains  all  sorts  of  things — cats,  worms  and 
snakes.  A  crash  of  thunder  is  a  signal  for  a  shower 
of  pitchforks,  and  the  poor  wretch  humps  himself, 
even  as  a  cow  heaves  her  spine,  to  meet  the  down- 
pouring  deluge.  When  this  storm  gets  through 
with  him  he  resembles  a  huge  pincushion. 

According  to  the  imperial  mandate  of  infernal 
law,  the  husband  who  purchases  fine  apparel  for 
himself  only  is  here  dressed  up  in  a  most  ridiculous 
female  costume.  Thus  he  is  compelled  to  appear 
always,  and,  although  he  goes  around  forever  whin 
ing  about  his  personal  attire,  his  efforts  to  get  a 
change  are  without  avail.  He  is  the  laughing 
stock  and  tantalized  target  of  the  wit  and  ridicule 
of  all  Hell. 


Why  one  of  this  class  of  sinners,  tagged  from 
the  little  city  of  Kokomo,  Indiana,  was  singled 
out  as  an  especially  fine  mark  for  the  demons, 
I  could  not  understand.  But  could  this  class  of 
malefactors  still  on  earth  hear  the  gruesome 
growls  and  exasperating  jeers  of  these  demons  as 
they  poked  this  soul  in  the  ribs,  it  would  serve  as 
an  effective  warning. 

The  belief  has  been  held  by  a  large  number  of 
gentlemen  that  tailors  make  bad-fitting  clothes  just 
out  of  pure  deviltry.  The  theory  is  in  some  degree 
corroborated  by  the  amount  of  space  and  attention 
given  to  these  individuals  in  Hell. 

In  one  of  the  hottest  locations  in  the  region — a 
place  where  the  thermometer  continually  overleaps 
all  laws  of  decorum — these  tailors  fume  and  steam, 
attired  in  their  own  misfits. 

I  stood  on  a  red-hot  iron  bridge  just  as  long  as 
I  could,  gazing  down  on  this  sweltering  throng, 
for  they  were  very  interesting.  Finally  one  of 
the  number,  on  seeing  me,  tore  madly  through  the 
crowd,  waving  a  bill  over  his  head.  I  knew  what 
that  meant,  and  fled. 


/ 


44 


MISFIT   TAILORS,    DUDES  AND  MASHERS. 


Through  a  dark  pathway  I  now  entered  into  the 
department  where  the  professional  "  mashers  "  are 
punished..  These  "mashers"  (or  "dudes,"  if  you 
prefer),  who  habitually  stand  on  street  corners  and 
ogle  pretty  girls,  are  here  given  a  taste  of  "  mash 
ing  "  as  Mr.  Satan  interprets  it.  Under  huge 
flat  rocks  these  wretches  lie  and  feebly  flounder, 
while  the  haunted  air  rings  with  their  despondent 
murmurs. 

Most  of  them  were  still  quite  young;  excessive 
cigarette-smoking  had  smoothed  their  paths  to  an 
early  grave. 

Being  struck  by  the  familiarity  of  a  pair  of 
moony  eyes  that  rolled  upward  as  I  approached, 
I  stooped  down,  and,  grabbing  the  shade  by  a 
tuft  of  front  hair,  cried:  "Tell  me,  aren't  you  the 
Rochester  dude  that  used  to  stand  at  the  '  four 
corners  '  and  insult  modest  maidenhood?  What's 
your  name?"  He  made  no  reply.  I  shook  him 
again  and  again,  until  he  yelled.  A  dude  from 
Philadelphia,  lying  hard  by,  on  hearing  the  noise, 
thereupon  cried  out  to  him,  calling  him  by  his  full 


THE    SELFISH    HUSBAND. 


A   CLUMSY   BALLET. 

"  Each  dances  in  his  own  peculiar  way. 


46 


THE  DENTIST'S    TERRIBLE  FATE. 


name,  and  asking  what  was  the  matter.  "Now, 
be  dumb,"  said  I.  "  I  have  your  name."  And 
I  shook  him  again  at  parting.  Near  him  were 
mashers  from  Brooklyn  and  Philadelphia.  Down 
the  embankment,  a  little  way  removed,  I  found 
a  dapper  little  flirt  from  Utica,  New  York.  I 
counted  no  less  than  twenty-five  who  hailed  from 
Saratoga.  Passing  still  downward,  I  beheld  a 
woebegone  spirit  with  a  gloomy  malformation  of 
banged  brow,  from  Hartford,  Connecticut.  Only 
his  head  protruded  from  underneath  his  weight 
of  woe,  while  his  pretty  mouth  bit  the  dust  like  a 
hysterical  woman  gnawing  a  lace  handkerchief. 

"I  say,"  he  cried,  beckoning  me  to  his  side. 
"Is  my  necktie  on  straight ?"  I  hurried  on  and 
said  not  a  word. 

The  next  soul  I  discovered  enjoying  the  luxu 
ries  of  Hell  was  a  certain  unfeeling  dentist  of  my 
acquaintance.  It  was  the  very  man  who  had,  a  few 
years  ago,  pulled  me  all  over  a  new  set  of  plush 
furniture,  down  two  flights  of  stairs  and  back  again, 
in  a  frantic  endeavor  to  extract  a  tooth  that  I  in 
sisted  didn't  need  extracting.  I  simply  looked  up 


48 


HAVING  FUN   WITH   A   POLICEMAN. 


as  I  saw  him  being  whisked  through  the  air,  and 
said,  pleasantly,  "Well,  how  do  you  like  it  your 
self?"  He  did  not  answer.  He  couldn't. 

Policemen  who  make  use  of  the  side  door, 
policemen  who  practice  their  club  exercises  on 
small  boys,  those  who  sleep  on  their  beats,  and  all 
those  who  have  ever  refused  to  answer  a  civil  ques 
tion,  find  ample  accommodations  and  a  reception 
of  undeniable  warmth  in  the  lower  world.  Imme 
diately  on  their  arrival  they  are  thrust  into  the 
electrical  patrol  wagon,  which  has  bent  pins  in 
the  seats,  and  trotted  out  to  a  lively  district 
where  professional  carpet-beaters  armed  with  clubs 
ever  flail  the  air.  Often  they  get  into  the  way  of 
the  clubs. 

It  is  a  matter  of  tradition  that  mundane  police 
men  look  upon  their  five-pointed  stars  with  pride. 
But  when  they  encounter  the  clubs  below  they  see 
more  stars,  round,  five-pointed,  octagonal  and  rhom 
boid,  than  they  can  possibly  have  time  to  admire. 

The  department  set  aside  for  lawyers  is  full  to 
overflowing.  Mr.  Satan  was  compelled  to  add  an 


SOME  BAD  AMATEUR  PHOTOGRAPHERS. 

"  They  did  the  groaning-— the  Devil  did  the  rest." 


THE   LAWYERS— A   NEWSPAPER   CLIPPING. 


annex  to  the  rear  of  the  department  recently,  for 
the  exclusive  accommodation  of  legal  lights  from 
Philadelphia.  No  plaint  was  heard  here;  nothing 
but  deep-heaved  sighs  that  made  the  eternal  air 
shiver — sighs  caused  not  by  torture,  but  from  grief 
felt  by  these  vast  multitudes. 

Every  lawyer  in  Hell  is  gagged — another  evi 
dence  that  Mr.  Satan  knows  human  character. 
What  mischief  could  a  lawyer  not  do  in  this  re 
gion  if  he  were  not  gagged  ?  Every  one  would  go 
to  headquarters,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  and 
present  a  plea  for  a  new  trial  or  make  objections 
to  the  rulings  of  Judge  Minos.  Moreover,  he  and 
his  colleagues  would  promise  to  bail  out  ever)' sin 
ner  in  the  place — if  there  was  anything  in  it.  As 
they  sat  around  on  the  rocks,  champing  their  gags 
as  the  untrained  broncho  champs  his  bit,  I  could 
not  but  see  the  necessity  of  their  cruel  pen 
alty. 

I  was  fortunate  in  arriving  in  Hell  at  a  time 
when  I  might  witness  a  scene  that  had  never 
occurred  before  in  the  history  of  the  place. 


Never,  until  this  time,  had  the  sinners  known  a  single 
hour's  respite  from  torture.  In  this  one  brief  holi 
day,  Mr.  Satan  permitted  the  holding  of  a  base-ball 
contest  between  picked  nines  from  Boston  and 
Chicago  sinners,  A  scrap  torn  from  the  Daily 
Groan,  Satan's  official  organ,  and  reproduced  on 
page  52,  gives  a  fair  report  of  the  more  interest 
ing  events  of  the  game. 

Standing  like  patient  oxen  in  their  stalls,  there 
now  appeared  before  me  a  long  row  of  hapless  sin 
ners,  each  held  tightly  by  the  nose,  in  the  grip  of 
a  huge  vise.  This  is  the  penalty  ordained  for  the 
man  who  perpetually  intrudes  his  nose  into  the 
business  of  others.  Many  of  these  were  newspaper 
reporters.  Aside  from  the  crime  of  prying  into 
private  affairs,  they  had  also  cultivated  the  habit  of 
asking  their  acquaintances,  every  time  they  chanced 
to  meet,  for  a  small  loan.  Through  a  short  journal 
istic  career,  I  have  played  an  easy  victim  to  these 
people.  As  a  consequence,  I  now  have  about 
ninety-two  outstanding  accounts  which  I  am  going 
to  turn  over  to  a  collector,  with  the  understanding 


i/'///''W*''>«7T      ,'"     ,         T  '/ 

IMIil 


THE  TRAMPS. 
"One  reechy  vagrant,  who  arrived  while  I  was  there,  fell  into  a  swoon  on  seeing  a  cake  of  soap  for  the  first  time.' 


AN  INTERESTING  CLASS  OF  MISCREANTS. 


THE  DAILY  GROAN,  OCTOBER  18 


DALS 

STLIST. 

JRATS. 

sensa- 

avid  B. 

sit  and 

body. 

.vibition 

the  sen- 

•'  which 

arty  of 

There 

^nduct 

jxcited 

:  of  the 

«  scene 

•vhich 

itral 

jr  has 

ed  poli- 

y,  in  a 

chal- 

,  de- 


(Continued  from  First  Page.) 

Mr.  Satan  himself  came  down  on  the 
elevator  from  his  private  office  above, 
with  Cerberus  and  a  crowd  of  employes 
and  valets.  He  took  his  seat  in  the 
gorgeously  canopied  grand  stand,  built 
For  the  occasion,  and  the  vast  multitude 
of  the  amphitheater  rose  as  one  man, 
shouting:  '"Rah  for  the  old  man!  He's 
all  right."  A  demon  pressed  an  electric 
button  at  the  right  of  Satan,  and  the 
whistles  of  the  brimstone  factories 
immediately  began  to  blow,  cannons 
boomed,  and  all  Hell  shook  with  the 
roar.  It  was  the  signal  for  the  game  to 
commence.  Mr.  Satan  chose  himself 
umpire.  This  was  a  disappointment  to 
those  who  had  come  weU  armed  with 

things  to  throw.     Mr.  James   B , 

a  Chicago  real-estate  man,  was  catcher 
for  the  Chicagos.  Jonas  R ,  ex- 
member  of  the  Board  of  Education  of 
Boston,  stood  behind  the  bat  for  the 
Bostons.  A  cab  driver  pitched  for 
Chicago,  and  did  some  very  effective 
twirling.  The  game  was  exciting.  Chi 
cago  won  after  two  hours  of  work.  The 
twenty  thousand  or  more  sinners  who 
made  up  the  audience  went  back  to  their 
respective  punishments,  and  Hell  once 
more  assumed  its  business-like  appear 
ance.  The  holiday  was  over.  The  resi 
dents  will  probably  never  have  another, 


Twc 
and  a  p 
made  fl 
health) 
great  a 
been  sc 
outsid 
change 
soon  si. 

On  S 
by  the  T 
wide  in 
loss  of 
heard 
exce 
for  p 

A  v 
their  n 
week  vi 
earnest 
but  wha 
that  th 
mum  wi 
cerely  t 
is  a  bi^ 

W.J. 
lot  of  d 
Scott 
stock 
and 
the  p 
cuttin 
well  dc 


that  he  is  to  have  a  house  and  lot  for  every  dollar 
collected. 

One  portion  of  the  back  yard  of  the  brimstone 
works  is  set  apart  for  a  small  but  interesting  class 
of  miscreants.  It  is  composed  of  men  who,  after 
seeing  their  neighbors  carefully  clean  the  sidewalks 
before  their  front  doors,  would  leave  the  pave  in 
front  of  their  own  homes  covered  with  snow  and 
slush.  These  individuals  are  here  set  to  a  task  of 
perpetual  shoveling.  There  is  no  snow,  of  course, 
but  they  are  made  to  shovel  brimstone,  and  to  the 
supply  of  brimstone  there  is  no  limit.  As  soon 
as  the  shoveler  has  scooped  away  a  little  bare 
place  in  his  heap,  a  demon  comes  along  and  fills  it 
over  again.  The  shoveler  is  never  allowed  to  stop 
to  blow  on  his  fingers,  or  change  hands  on  the 
scoop  handle,  or  rest  his  aching  shoulder.  It  is 
estimated  that  the  work  of  one  of  these  individuals 
alone,  during  seven  months,  would  suffice  to  clean 
all  the  sidewalks  in  America  and  make  a  big  hole 
in  the  Arctic  snow-banks. 


THE   SOCIETY   BORE. 


ON  EARTH. 


IN  TIIE  SWEET  BY-AKD-BY. 


54 


WASTE-BASKET  FOR    WICKED  EDITORS. 


Editors  who  take  an  awful  satisfaction  in  re 
jecting  manuscript  are  piled  in  huge,  red-hot  iron 
waste-baskets.      Those,    also,  who    sin   by  swear 
ing  falsely  to  the  circulation   of  their  papers  are 
here.      They  are   put  down  deep  into  the  bottom 
of  the  baskets,  as  the  smallest  and  wormiest  apples 
are  always  found  in  the  lowest  depths  of  the  barrel. 
Here,   also,    are  those    editors    who    never    credit 
stolen  matter.     In  the  valleys  and  on  the  mount 
ain-sides,    in    caves  and    in    ditches   everywhere, 
weie  to  be  seen  these  waste-baskets,  each  hold 
ing  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  editors.      I 
trust    this    news  will    send  a  thrill    of 
serene  joy   through    the   heart    of    the 
struggling    story-writer  and    the    ama 
teur  poet.    Democratic  and  Republican  editors 
are  thrown  together  regardless  of  their  politi 
cal  works.      Often — and  this  must  be  a  piti 
less  punishment — a  Republican  editor,  for  instance, 
will  find  himself  associated,  cheek  by  jowl,  with  the 
editor  of  a  rival  Democratic  paper.     Free-traders 
rub  elbows  with  protectionists.      No  wonder  these 


baskets  of  human-kind  heave  and  toss  with  the 
wild  animation  that  pervades  a  can  of  angle 
worm  bait. 

Occasionally  Mr.  Satan  makes  a  trip  through 
his  realm  on  a  special  car  to  see  how  things  are 
progressing.  On  these  tours  of  inspection  he 
frequently  addresses  a  few  remarks  to  the  crowds 
drawn  about  his  coach  by  curiosity. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  last  trip  there  was  a 
strike  threatening  at  the  sulphur  factory.  Mr. 
Satan  heard  of  the  disturbance  and  ordered  his 
coach  backed  up  on  the  side-track  by  the  works 
just  as  the  men  were  leaving.  He  stepped  out 
on  the  platform.  An  occasional  hiss,  with  an 
accompanying  low  groan,  swept  through  the  crowd, 
but  the  king  was  firm. 

"Gentlemen,  employes  and  fellow-citizens  of 
Hell,"  he  began.  "Let  us  listen  to  reason."  Then, 
with  a  graceful  and  deprecating  wave  of  his  long 
tail,  he  leaned  over  the  platform  and  flung  this 
apothegm  in  their  teeth:  "Turbulence  born  of 
impulse  is  a  ram  that  spends  blind  fury  on  a  rock 


"  Each  sat  in  his  particular  oven.*' 


MR.  SATAN  ADDRESSING  HIS  EMPLOYES. 


and  falls  back  biting  the  dust."  Then  pausing  and 
straightening  up  to  see  the  effect,  he  continued: 
"This  disturbance  is  unwise.  I  see  a  great  many 
before  me  who  are  working  out  eternal  sentences, 
for  various  offenses,  at  hard  labor  in  this  brimstone 
factory.  Others,  here,  the  foremen  and  overseers, 
are  my  compeers,  and  these  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  are  not  in  sympathy  with  the  strike.  To 
the  former,  let  me  repeat,  this  disturbance  is  un 
wise.  It  behooves  all  of  you  to  go  back  and  put 
again  the  machinery  to  the  rumble. 

"Why  this  seething  dissatisfaction?  Surely  you 
do  not  think  that  wealth  is  a  chute  through  which 
one  can  slide  to  a  haven  of  joy.  Here  you  should 
be  contented.  You  have  all  the  clothing  you  need, 
and  I  pay  your  car-fare.  And  then  think!  Think, 
long  and  deep,  how  much  better  off  you  are  than 
the  boodle  aldermen  just  across  that  chasm,  who 
are  at  this  very  moment  getting 
fried.  You!  out  there!"  And  Mr. 
Satan  pointed  to  a  tall,  swan- 
necked  man  far  back  in  the  crowd. 


"  How  would  you  like  to  change  places  with  the 
aldermen  ?  And  you !" — pointing  to  a  man  who  was 
nervously  biting  his  finger  nails — "You,  sentenced 
here  because  you  let  your  wife  split  wood  for  a 
family  of  six  while  you  played  quoits,  how  would 
you  like  to  change  places  with  a  confidence  man 
who  is  compelled  to  slide  eternally  down  a  tobog 
gan  of  sand  paper?  And,"  the  orator  added  in  a 
threatening  tone,  "  I  really  believe  you  all  deserve 
a  severer  punishment." 

At  this  the  strikers  showed  a  perceptible  weak 
ening.  Three  or  four  even  straggled  back  to  the 
works,  including  the  individual  last  addressed. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  let  your  calm,  deliberate 
judgment  guide  you.  I  have  sounded  the  warning. 
Let  well-enough  alone.  Throw  grenades  of  reason 
on  your  smoldering  discontent. 
Letyour  motto  be:  'Well  enough 
is  Hell  enough!'  and  you  will 
pass  your  time  to  advantage  in 
this  wonderful  region,  which 
ever  roars  with  modern  improve 
ment  and  prosperity." 


A  BALLET  OF   VETERANS. 


Satan  bowed.  The  strikers  returned  to  work. 
And,  as  he  ordered  the  car  out  and  settled  himself 
in  his  seat,  he  again  heard  the  machinery  of  the 
brimstone  works  put  to  the  rumble. 

In  the  midst  of  this  fearful  region  yawns  a  spa 
cious  valley,  in  the  hollow  floor  of  which  stands 
a  huge  stage.  On  this  stage  can  be  seen  a  throng 
of  bald-headed  gentlemen,  dancing 
earnestly  on  sharp  tacks.  These  are 
the  men  who  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the 
theater;  the  men  who  nightly  left  wife 
and  home  to  haunt  the  playhouse  and 
lavish  affection  and  flowers  on  willing  ballet  girls. 
No  hope,  no  rest  they  have,  save  on  the  one  day  in 
the  month  which  Mr.  Satan  gives  them  for  picking 
the  tacks  out  of  their  feet.  Then  the  merry  dance 
goes  on  again,  while  His  Majesty's  subjects 
look  on  and  laugh.  They  show  no  evidence  of 
close  observation  and  study  of  the  saltatory  art. 
Each  dances  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  Some  prefer 
the  mazurka  step,  while  a  few  practice  something 
resembling  the  danse  du  venire.  As  I  stood  on 


the  cliff  which  answers  as  the  first  balcony  of 
this  subterranean  theater,  and  looked  down  on 
the  all-star  combination,  my  thoughts  turned 
to  the  thousands  of  deluded  veterans  on  earth 
who  insist  on  being  frivolously  gay,  never  once 
worrying  their  heads  about  the  hereafter.  Yet, 
as  sure  as  fate,  that  hereafter  will  eventually 
gather  them  in,  and  wind  them  up  for  this  eternal 
can-can. 

High  up  on  a  rocky  shelf  above  a  horrible 
abyss,  I  found  one  whose  fate  seemed  after  all 
hardly  adequate  to  his  great  fault.  He  was  the  man 
who  on  earth  would  eat  in  defiance  of  all  laws  of 
decency.  Many  a  time  had  he  sat  at  a  public 
restaurant  table  and  gleefully  spaded  pie  into 
his  mouth  with  a  knife-blade,  while  a  host  of 
distressed  patrons  dropped  their  coffee-cups  and 
gazed  at  the  spectacle.  He  would  draw  soup 
through  a  clotted  moustache  with  a  sound  like  a 
leaking  hydrant.  Also,  he  used  to  tuck  his  napkin 
around  under  his  collar  and  tie  it  at  the  back.  In 
his  present  situation,  he  stands  fastened  to  the 


6o 


KODAK  FIENDS. 


cruel  rock  by  a  halter  about  his  neck,  while 
just  out  of  reach  a  throng  of  merry  goblins  with 
luscious  pies  are  venting  shrill  jeers.  The  in 
tensely  poetic  justice  of  this  proceeding  is  at  once 
apparent. 

Not  all  amateur  photographers  are  bad,  but 
enough  of  them  have  fallen  into  the  realm  of  pain 
to  warrant  a  special  and  appropriate  punishment. 

Along  a  high  surface  of  straight  rock,  each 
hung  up  by  a  "head-rest,"  were  these  unfortun 
ates,  their  forms  dangling  over  a  deep  but  narrow 
abyss. 

Every  hour  a  demon  comes  along  and  takes 
snap  shots,  with  the  understanding  that  the  victims 
must  look  pleasant  or  be  hurled  down  into  the 
chasm,  where  they  go  through  a  terrible  develop 
ing  torture.  Any  one  who  has  had  the  experience 
(and  who  has  not?)  of  trying  to  look  pleasant  with 
the  cleats  of  a  "head-rest"  digging  deep  into  his 
skull,  knows  what  a  trying  ordeal  it  is.  Kodak 
fiends  without  number  swung  above  me  as  I 
walked  along  taking  notes.  They  did  the 


groaning — the  Devil  did  the  rest.  Sometimes  I 
would  reach  over  playfully  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  chasm  and  pull  the  toe  of  a  gasping  mortal, 
just  by  way  of  introduction,  and  then  try  to  draw 
him  out  into  conversation.  But  they  were  not 
inclined  to  be  communicative. 

I  now  descended  by  a  winding  way  into  a  de 
partment  which  is  devoted  to  the  punishment  of 
tramps.  A  diabolical  wag  had  written  on  the  wall 
of  rock  above  the  entrance  :  "The  Retreat  for  the 
Tired."  The  entrance  was  guarded  by  a  burly 
demon  who  objected  furiously  to  my  entering.  Upon 
telling  him  my  purpose  and  explaining  the  value 
of  newspaper  notices,  he  unbent,  and  said  that 
if  I  was  writing  the  place  up,  that  was  different,  he 
would  be  glad  to  do  any  favor,  and  would  like  to 
have  me  send  him  a  copy  of  the  paper. 

His  fury  being  thus  easily  pacified,   I   passed 
£j    through    the    narrow   gate-way   and    walked 
///   down  a   long   declivity  up  which  the  blind- 
ing    steam  hurried  as  a  blizzard  sweeps  up  a 
prairie  slope.     Upon  drawing  near  the  bottom, 


AGILE   DEFAULTERS. 

'On  they  came,  clattering  like  mountain  goats. 


62 


"THE  RETREAT  FOR   THE   TIRED." 


I  discerned  large  vats  of  boiling  water,  where  were 
being  washed  thousands  of  those  worthless,  un 
couth  beings  who,  while  on  earth,  lived  without 
work,  begged  without  shame  and  washed  without 
soap — if  indeed  they  washed  at  all. 

"  Most  of  these  tramps  hail  from  the  little  mos 
quito-bitten  State  of  New  Jersey,"  said  the  burly 
demon  who  had  followed  me  down  and  was  making 
himself  agreeable  with  the  evident  design  of  get 
ting  his  name  in  the  newspaper.  "That,"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  spot  where  the  ripples  spread  wide 
their  coils,  "that  is  the  soul  of  Tired  Timothy, 
of  Trenton,  New  Jersey.  Yonder  is  Wayward 
Huskins,  who  had  an  enviable  reputation  of  never 
doing  a  day's  work  in  his  life.  That  bald  brow 
x  whereon  the  snake-feeders  are  dancing 
/  ring-around-the-rosy  is  Pentup  Peters, 
of  Duluth,  the  wiliest,  wittiest  tramp  of 

jC< -  trampdom." 
*  *(/ 

)/  o        Many  more  were  pointed  out  to  me, 
TO  whose  names  I  do  not  now  call  to  mind. 
Some  whom  I  saw  were  immersed  as 


high  as  to  their  eyebrows;  others  showed  nothing 
but  a  foot  or  a  freckle.  Long  did  I  sit  and  watch 
them,  as  the  demons  would  turn  on  the  hose  when 
they  least  expected  it,  or  pull  them  out  and  scrub 
them.  One  reechy  vagrant  from  Akron,  who  ar 
rived  while  I  was  there,  fell  into  a  swoon  on  see 
ing  a  cake  of  soap  for  the  first  time.  It  was 
pathetic. 

Having  successfully  surmounted  some  hin 
drances  and  inspected  the  new  Incline  Railroad, 
which  is  now  in  full  working  order,  I  followed  the 
direction  of  a  sign-board  pointing  to  the  gulf  where 
society  bores  are  punished. 

The  society  bores — and  there  are  many  of  them 
in  Hell — are  not  having  what  would  be  termed 
on  earth  "a.  glorious  time."  They  were  all  there, 
however.  The  man  who  continually  talks  about 
himself  was  there;  the  man  who  tries  to  act  funny 
in  company  and  makes  an  indecent  fool  of  himself 
was  there;  the  man  who  is  always  flattering 
other  men's  wives  was  there.  There  were  others, 
too,  all  being  sat  upon  by  industrious  demons  who 


MENDACIOUS   INDIVIDUALS— MEN   WHO   TELL   MSH   STORIES. 
"  Like  fretted  fishes  jerked  from  the  calm  delights  of  a  placid  pool." 


&y. 


r,4 


DOODLE  ALDERMEN. 


a 


worked  diligently  and  happily,  boring  deep  holes 
into  the  poor  wretches  with  brace  and  bit,  or  post- 
hole  augers. 

Hugging  the  rocky  ledge  closely,  I  groped  my 
way  to  a  lower  plain,  where  I  discovered  new  tor 
ments.  Here  the  boodle  aldermen  are  roasted  ti  la 
mode.  Everywhere  was  great  activity.  It  is  said 
that  this  department  exacts  more  careful  attention 
and  employs  more  demons  than  any  other  in  this 
region.  I  found  the  large  and  populous  Chicago 
branch  to  be  the  most  interesting. 

These  boodle  alderman,  who,  on  earth,  aver 
that  their  hearts  burn  with  a  passionate  desire  to 
serve  the  people,  and  then  forthwith  go  to  serv 
ing  with  impassioned  energy  any  corporation  that 
will  give  up  to  them,  are  here  shoveled  into  the 
separate  ovens  of  a  big  furnace,  which  winds 
around  the  hill  in  a  semicircular  arrangement  sim 
ilar  to  that  of  the  desks  in  the  Chicago  city  council. 

Each  sat  in  his  particular  oven,  not  only 
"  burning  at  heart  with  sympathy  for  his  constitu 
ents,"  but  burning  all  over,  and  swearing  till  the 


blue  air,  mixing  with  the  bright  red  flames,  made  a 
highly  striking  picture.  At  intervals  the  aldermen 
would  break  out  with  the  remark  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  newspapers  they  would  not  be  suffer 
ing  this  injustice. 

Some  are  tough  and  some  are  tender,  but  the 
demons  spare  none;  the  fat  and  the  lean,  the 
beautiful  and  the  thug-faced,  all  go  together  in 
democratic  simplicity  into  this  sizzling,  broiling 
barbecue.  If,  on  feeling  of  the  breast-bone  of  a 
new  arrival,  it  is  found  that  he  is  uncommonly 
tough,  he  goes  into  the  Chicago  department,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  New  York  City  compares 
favorably  with  Chicago  in  furnishing  thorough 
bred  boodlers.  Pittsburgh  sends  some  pretty 
bad  ones;  and  I  was  told  that  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
had  a  showing  of  aldermen  in  Hell  that  could 
compete  with  almost  any — not  in  numbers,  but 
in  general  moral,  mental  and  physical  dilapi 
dation. 

On  my  way  out,  I  passed  the  furnace  where 
those  from  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  were  roasted. 


THE  QUACK   DOCTORS. 

"  Gulping1  their  own  poison." 


66 


A   "CORNER." 


It  was  a  very  sad  sight,  but  somehow  I  did  not  feel 
like  soiling  a  new  handkerchief  with  fresh  tears. 
Perhaps  I  felt  as  the  average  tax-payer  must  feel 
when  he  reads  this — that  Hell  is  a  rich  joke  on  the 
aldermen. 

Now  I  began  to  hear  below  me  a  terrible  noise; 
the  yelling  of  voices  deep  and  hoarse  made  up  a 
tumult  that  cleft  the  Stygian  darkness  like  the 
roaring  of  a  herd  of  Leviathans.  Following  the 
direction  of  the  noise,  I  soon  discovered  that  I  was 
in  the  eternal  home  of  the  "Board  of  Trade  gam 
blers."  Into  huge  pits  or  "corners,"  as  the 
demons  call  them,  these  bulls  and  bears  are  hurled 
headlong.  There  they  begin  speedily  to  realize 
that  Mr.  Satan  can  run  a  tight  corner  himself — a 
tighter  "corner"  than  they  were  ever  in,  or  ever 
pushed  any  one  else  into.  No  mercy  is  shown 
them;  fifteen  deep,  they  are  piled  in  and  squeezed 
as  wet  clothes  are  squeezed  in  a  wringing-machine. 
The  flames  from  an  adjacent  well  of 
)  natural  gas  rose  high  above  the  opposite 
wall  and  threw  a  flickering  red  light  about 


this  department,  plainly  disclosing  these  animals 
in  all  their  mad  revelry.  Looking  down  the  jaws 
of  the  pit,  I  saw,  directly  below  me,  a  large  man 
who  seemed  so  utterly  whelmed  in  woe  that  pity 
burst  the  dam  of  my  visage,  and  I  dropped  a  large, 
lustrous  tear  on  his  bald  head  as  a  token  of  my 
sympathy. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  Board  of  Trade  gamblers, 
I  looked  up  and  saw  a  tribe  of  smooth,  oily-look 
ing  sinners  coming  down  the  slope  and  gibbering 
in  low,  guttural  tones,  while  a  Gorgon  policeman 
cracked  a  long  whip  and  drove  them  on  from 
the  rear.  These  individuals,  I  was  informed, 
were  the  bunko-steerers.  I  followed  the  pro 
cession  long  and  faithfully,  as  a  small  boy  will 
follow  an  Italian  with  a  bear — not  because  there 
is  any  fun  in  walking,  but  because  there  is  certain 
to  be  a  free  show.  I  was  not  disappointed. 
Climbing  a  steep  hill,  the  procession  halted 
where  there  was  already  a  howling  pandemonium 
of  hopeless  souls.  I  mounted  to  the  summit  of  a 
small  precipice  and  looked  over.  Running  from 


68 


THE  SANDPAPER  SLIDE. 


A 


the  top  to  the  bottom  of  this  hill  was  a  sandpaper 
slide,  constructed  very  much  like  the  regulation 
toboggan  slide,  though  not  for  the  amusement  of 
the  sliders.  The  slide  punishment  is  dealt  to 
bunko-steerers  for  various  reasons.  It  gives  the 
devils  a  chance  to  try  their  own  hands  at  steering, 
for  one  thing,  and  it  affords  them  a  good  deal 
/?C-  °*  enJ°yment.  And  then,  the  sandpaper, 
\  being  coarse-grained  and  rough,  rubs  off 


I  \  that  smooth,  oily  way  which  is  a  neces- 
)Y     sary  acquirement  of  a  successful  bunko- 
//       steerer. 

As  they   stood   in   procession,    with 
A  |   shivering  knees,  a  demoniac  policeman  would 
'  "'   at  certain  intervals  yell  "Next!"     The  one 
<O^  foremost  would    then  shuffle   to   the  front, 
where  he  would  receive  a  shove  which  would  send 
him  whirling  and  rasping  down  the  slide  at  a  fearful 
rate.    Those  who  have  rubbed  a  big  Bermuda  onion 
on  a  nutmeg  grater  will  easily  imagine  the  fluency 
with  which  the  slider  wept. 


Farmers  from  Sangamon  County,  Illinois,  as  well 
as  those  from  Essex,  New  York,  Berkshire,  Massa 
chusetts,  and  Ulster  County,  New  York,  all  of  whom 
are  noted  for  the  time-honored  custom  of  being 
beguiled  by  these  affable  tricksters,  and  relieved 
of  their  money  every  time  they  visit  large  cities, 
will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  there  is  a  place  of 
retribution  for  the  bunko-steerer.  Indeed,  there  is 
played  upon  him  a  skin  game  of  which  he  cannot 
get  the  combination. 

Inveterate  and  guileful  poker  players  are  stacked 
up  in  regular  rows  like  poker  chips.  A  section 
embracing  miles  and  miles  of  valuable  real  estate 
in  Hell  is  used  for  the  stacking  of  these  sinners. 
That  I  might  get  a  good  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
department,  I  climbed  to  the  summit  of  one  of 
these  mountains  of  human  souls.  Twice  my  efforts 
to  gain  the  top  were  baffled,  and  I  fell  down  the 
howling  mass  all  in  a  heap.  I  made  a  third  effort, 
and  this  time,  by  taking  firm  hold  of  an  occasional 
protruding  ear  or  stout  toe,  and  using  great  caution 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE   FEMALE   DEPARTMENT. 
'  I  carried  on  a  harmless  flirtation  with  a  fair-haired  sinner  over  the  wall." 


70  . 


STACKS  OF  POKER  PLAYERS— FEMALE  DEPARTMENT 


not  to  step  on  a  smooth-shaven  chin,  lest  I  might 
slip,  I  succeeded  in  reaching  the  top.  Then  I 
made  a  telescope  of  my  hands  and  looked  out  over 
the  plain  of  Pokerdom.  And  what  a  sight  was 
there,  my  countrymen! 

The  hot  wind  was  blowing  strong.  The  signs 
rustling  in  the  stacks  swung  to  and  fro  with  the 
breeze.  Just  as  far  as  I  could  see,  these  tangled 
heaps  of  humankind  reared  their  lofty  peaks  to  the 
opaque  sky,  while  the  bats  swung  around  them 
and  built  nests  in  their  whiskers.  The  pile  on 
which  I  stood  heaved  and  tossed  so  wildly  that  I 
thought  it  best  to  crawl  down  and  set  forward  for 
the  next  department. 

Coming  to  a  spot  where  the  plain  of  "Poker 
dom"  ends  abruptly  and  descends  in  an  almost 
perpendicular  steep,  thousands  of  voices  arose 
from  below;  they  were  female  voices.  I  looked 
down  through  a  thick  fog, 
which  hovered  over  the  vast 
plain,  and  saw,  indistinctly, 
a  large  square  of  battlements 


surrounding  what  I  afterward  learned  was  the 
department  for  the  punishment  of  women.  "Wo 
men  who  step  off  'the  street  cars  backwards," 
"the  woman  who  has  her  husband  do  her  house 
work  when  he  ought  to  be  attending  to  his  own  busi 
ness,"  "  the  ubiquitous  borrower  for  church  funds," 
"the  feeble-minded  woman  who  publicly  flaunts 
affection  for  her  husband,"  "women  who  lavish 
their  affections  on  poodle  dogs,"  "domineering 
hired  girls,"  "  saucy  telephone  girls,"  "  the  woman 
who  pounds  her  husband  with  a  broom  when  she 
should  take  an  ax" — these,  all  these,  and  numerous 
others,  find  warm  berths  in  the  "Devil's  Domain." 
Passing  my  solitary  way  down  the  steep,  with 
both  hands  and  feet  doing  active  service,  I  drew 
near  to  the  entrance,  where  the  rabble  of  voices 
now  sounded  like  several  sewing  societies  in  joint 
caucus.  I  saw  a  notice  over  the  door:  "Gentle 
men  must  keep  out."  I  made  an  effort  to  sneak 
in,  notwithstanding,  but  was  detected  by  a  coy  she- 
goblin,  who  guards  the  entrance,  and  who  whisked 
me  out  with  a  suddenness  that  it  makes  me  dizzy 


"COLD"   BUSINESS   MEN. 
"As  frog-s  peep  croaking  above  the  wave." 


A    COOL  RETREAT. 


to  think  of,  even  now.  Not  entirely  disheartened, 
I  wandered  around  the  wall,  and,  while  no  one  was 
looking,  climbed  up  a  step-ladder  and  carried  on  a 
little  harmless  flirtation  with  a  fair-haired  sinner 
over  the  wall. 

As,  oppressed  by  the  gloom  and  terror,  I  wan 
dered  down  into  the  fearsome  pit  beneath  the  "  Fe 
male  Department,"  with  my  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
the  lofty  battlements,  and  heart  drumming  against 
my  ribs,  I  heard  a  weird,  sepulchral  voice  ring  out: 
"Say,  mister,  lift  your  feet!"  I  turned  and  saw 
before  and  underneath  me  a  lake  whose  frozen  sur 
face  seemed  like  glass.  As  frogs  peep  croaking 
above  the  wave,  so  these  poor  spirits,  blue,  pinched 
and  frigid,  stood  shrined  in  ice.  At  the  side  a  per 
pendicular  wall  of  ice  arose,  as  a  bank  rises  at  a 
river's  side.  From  this  wall,  also,  there  peered 
heads,  whose  chattering  teeth  sounded  like  the 
monotonous  music  of  horse  fiddles. 

Referring  to  my  guide-book,  I  found 
that  this  was  the  just  punishment  of 
those  heartless,  unsympathetic  and  un 


charitable  men  whom  one  meets  in  every  com 
munity,  and  whose  characters  might  best  be  de 
scribed  by  the  word  "cold." 

Walking  on  a  space,  I  found  one  at  my  feet  who 
seemed  apart  from  this  throng,  but  was  none  the 
less  grief-stricken.  He  lifted  his  head  with  a  blood- 
freezing  crackle  of  the  neck-joint.  I  stooped 
low  and  sympathetically  asked  him  what  he  had 
done  to  deserve  such  treatment. 

He  answered:  "Sold  ice,"  and  I  knew  that 
here  was  one  of  that  fortunately  almost  extinct 
species  of  mercenary  ice-dealer  who  brings  little 
chunks  of  ice  to  the  customer's  door  and  charges 
three  times  their  value. 

I  began  to  see  that  I  would  have  a  case  of  chil 
blains  to  nurse  if  I  didn't  hurry  from  the  place — so 
I  skated  out. 

I  next  descended  a  path  leading  to  the  left, 
and  sought  to  explore  the  depth  wherein  all-search 
ing  justice  dooms  to  punishment  the  agile  bank 
cashiers  and  all  men  who  have  at  any  time  during 
their  lives  shouldered  other  men's  money  and 


THE   KENTUCKY   COLONELS. 


"  More  snakes!' 


74 


PUNISHING  MEN  DA  CITY— DBF  A  UL  TERS. 


skipped  to  countries  where  they  fear  no  extra 
dition. 

I  had  not  journeyed  long  over  the  uncertain 
steps  of  stone,  when,  from  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
Alp-like  slope,  I  saw  great  volumes  of  fire  shooting 
and  swaying  in  the  far-off  gloom.  The  peaks  of 
distant  mountains  showed  black  against  the  glare. 
The  caloric  was  now  intense. 

Looking  up,  as  a  wide  rift  opened  in  the  whirl 
ing  smoke,  I  saw,  beyond,  the  spirits  of  the  bank 
cashiers  still  forever  skipping,  still  forever  chased 
by  Satan's  private  police.  On  they  came,  clatter 
ing  like  mountain  goats,  leaping  and  tumbling 
from  crag  to  crag,  on  their  shoulders  big  bags  of 
stones,  far  heavier  than  any  boodle,  and  in  their 
hearts  great  chunks  of  sorrow.  On  and  on  they  skip 
eternally.  There  is  no  American  detective  behind  to 
lose  sight  of  them  and  give  them  cease  of  suffer 
ing. 

Pushing  blindly  downward,  I  suddenly  felt  my 
self  environed  by  a  damp  atmosphere.  Downward 
to  the  left  I  came  upon  the  men  who  are  given  to 


falsehoods,  particularly  men  who  were  fond  of 
telling  "fish  stories."  These  sinners  are  hung 
up  on  fish-hooks  over  a  boiling  lake,  where,  through 
the  long,  hot  ages,  they  writhe  and  squirm  like  fretted 
fishes  jerked  from  the  calm  delights  of  a  placid  pool. 
Some  hung  by  the  ears,  others  by  the  back.  Another 
was  swinging,  with  unstudied  grace,  by  the  heel. 
Approaching  one  who  hung  uneasily  above,  I 
looked  up,  and  asked  him  whether  he  was  sorry  he 
had  come.  He  muttered  something  about  its  be 
ing  no  sinecure,  but,  as  I  was  about  to  go  away, 
called  me  back  and  asked  how  the  fishing  was, 
up  around  the  Mackinac  lakes. 

Though  at  this  time  well-nigh  exhausted  with 
the  vicissitudes  of  my  journey,  I  kept  right  on, 
determined  to  see  everything.  Some  people,  as  I 
could  plainly  see,  were  going  to  stand  this  thing 
throughout  eternity.  I  ought  to  be  able  to  hold 
on  a  little  longer. 

The  sewers  of  Hell  are  flushed  with  patent 
medicines.  Wallowing  in  this  stream  of  mysterious 
decoction  are  the  souls  of  the  quack  doctors,  gulp- 


THE   MONOPOLISTS    AND    SNOBBISH    RICH. 
1  Then,  the  heat  becoming-  more  intense,  his  corpulent  person  flopped  in  the  pan,  head  down,  as  pop-corn  jumps  with  the  heat. 


QUACK  DOCTORS  AND  KENTUCKY  COLONELS. 


r 


ing  their  own  poison.  To  add  to  the  punishment, 
unceasing  showers  of  large  pills  descend,  the 
doctors  frantically  beating  the  air  in  their  en 
deavors  to  ward  off  the  bitter  storm. 

I  saw  many  whose  portraits  once  adorned  the 
advertising  columns  of  the  daily  press,  but  they 
slunk  away  on  seeing  me  as  a  water-rat  seeks  the 
darkness  of  the  mud-bank.  One  of  them,  who  had 
been  trj'ing  to  gnaw  a  free  lunch  out  of  the  head 
of  a  rival,  looked  up  while  I  stood  on  the  rock 
above  them,  wiped  his  moustache  on  the  other  fel 
low's  head  and  cried  out,  "  Say,  did  you  ever  take 
anything  for  it  ?"  "For  what?"  I  asked.  "Why, 
man,  you've  got  incipient  etiolation  of  the  cerebel 
lum."  "Thanks,"  said  I,  and  walked  off.  I  don't 
know  just  what  the  etiolation  malady  may 
be,  but  if  I  have  it,  it  will  probably  be 
trouble  enough  of  itself,  'without 
\//  \  being  complicated  with  patent 

,  •    • 

medicines. 

Down  in  a  gloomy  vale,  where 
the  hot,  miasmatic  breeze  rankles 


in  your  nostrils  like  the  odor  of  a  lowly  restaurant, 
I  discovered  the  Kentucky  colonels.  I  take  no 
credit  for  the  discovery.  Any  one  who  visits  Hell 
and  fails  to  run  against  officers  from  the  blue-grass 
country  must  be  an  expert  dodger.  And  here  they 
were;  up  on  the  mountain  sides,  down  in  the 
chasms,  everywhere — writhing,  cavorting  and  gal 
loping.  Each  colonel  wears  a  pair  of  boots  which 
are  well  filled  with  large  snakes.  These  are  his 
permanent  property.  In  case  he  loses  any,  the 
demon  overseer  will  yell,  "More  snakes!"  and 
immediately  another  hodful  is  sent  up  from  below. 

The  horrible  scenes  witnessed  at  every  turn 
now  began  to  unnerve  me.  As  a  fluttering  feather 
drops  to  lowland  from  the  weary  wing  of  the  jim- 
crow  wheeling  over  the  mountain  crest,  so  my  heart 
sank  lower  and  lower,  till  I  dropped  to  the  ground 
in  a  stupor  of  extreme  melancholy. 

Aroused  by  the  heavy  boom  of  a  gas-pipe  burst 
ing  on  the  opposite  hill,  I  arose  and  pushed  aim 
lessly  on  my  way,  presently  finding  myself  in  the 
midst  of  the  great  fat-frying  industries  of  this  region. 


•I 


THEY  FAILED  TO   PRACTICE   WHAT  THEY   PREACHED. 

\* 

"  But  looking  up  I  saw  a  sight  that  made  me  stand  aghast." 


78 


UNHAPPY  MONOPOLISTS. 


Seated  in  large  frying-pans,  the  monopolists  and 
the  pompous  rich  vainly  fan  themselves,  while  the 
slow,  eternal  fires  gradually  fry  the  fat  out  of  them. 
I  passed  slowly  in  front  of  them  as  they  sat  there, 
hissing  and  bubbling.  They  eyed  me  sharply, 
evidently  wondering  how  I  happened  to  be  there 
in  the  garb  of  earthly  mortals.  One  steaming  soul, 
before  whom  I  halted,  wiped  his  brow  with  a 
ragged  stock  certificate  and  asked  me  if  I  could  tell 
him  what  "Union  Pacific"  was  quoted  at.  I  told 
him  I  did  not  know,  whereat  he  seemed  very  sad. 
Then,  the  heat  becoming  more  intense,  his  corpu 
lent  person  flopped  in  the  pan,  head  down,  as  pop 
corn  jumps  with  the  heat. 

Walking  on  apace  and  wondering  how  a  little 
facetiousness  would  strike  the  unfortunates,  I  asked 
one  of  the  number,  who  was  already  done  quite 

hrown  if  it  wa«;  "hot  prirmfVi  " 
Jrown,  i] 

for  him.  It  did  not  work.  Im- 
mediately  a  score  or  more  of 
demons  shot  down  from  the 
black  sky,  and,  grappling  me 


•jffrowwv-vss!»»g» 
i   JOB  -LOT    OF 
'„  ,'B'ROOWN 


with  hooks,  hurled  me  down  a  deep  chasm,  a  dis 
tance  of  several  hundred  feet. 

An  age  it  seemed  before  I  recovered  reason, 
when,  standing  in  an  abyss  where  stifling  vapors 
drifted  thick  on  all  sides,  my  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  strange,  metallic  mutterings  seemingly  coming 
from  a  distance.  But  looking  up,  I  saw  a  sight 
that  made  me  stand  aghast.  There,  right 'before 
me,  along  the  barren  rock  sat  a  brood  of  pensive 
souls  crouching  before  an  endless  row  of  phono 
graphs. 

"  Sermons  I  used  to  inflict  on  the  public,"  was 
the  inscription  placarded  on  each  machine. 

In  front  of  them  there  passed  every  few  moments 
an  industrious  demon  taking  up  a  collection. 

It  needed  no  reference  to  my  guide  book  to 
place  these  unhappy  people — the  ministers  who 
never  know  when  their  congregations  have  had 
enough. 

Passing  wearily  up  an  acclivity,  dragging  one 
foot,  then  the  other,  as  one  might  haul  two  recal 
citrant  children,  I  at  last  reached  the  summit,  from 


*    /:  ^r •••'      - '  x  1 
i    ^Tj,-    _;-  ---gj   \ 


THE   BRUTE   PUGILISTS. 

Some  of  them  fought  -vigorously  lor  a  moment,  but  in  the  end  they  all  succumbed." 


8o 


THE  PUGILISTS— THE   CHRONIC  KICKERS. 


which  I  looked  into  a  large  enclosure, 
and  saw  the  mode  of  punishment  that 
Judge  Minos,  in  his  severest  mood, 
metes  out  to  the  professional  pugilist. 
The  sluggers  were  holding  glove  con 
tests  with  the  most  powerful  of  the 
demons.  Some  of  them  fought  vig 
orously  for  a  moment,  but  in  the  end  they  all 
succumbed.  As  the  demons  wore  gloves  covered 
with  short  iron  spurs  and  the  pugilists  had  only 
the  regulation  mitten,  with  eight  ounces  of  padding, 
the  contests  were  rather  one-sided. 

One  pugilist  was  receiving  particularly  heavy 
punishment.  ' '  Who  is  that  unfortunate ?"  I  asked. 
"Some  one  who  has  fought  innumerable  times?" 
"No,"  replied  one  of  the  demons.  "He  didn't 
fight  at  all.  He  just  issued  challenges." 

I  was  now  in  the  very  bottom  of  the  region, 
the  lowest  depth,  and  was  about  to  retrace  my 
steps,  congratulating  myself  that  it  was  all  over, 
when  I  became  aware  of  a  constant  muffled  rum 
bling,  as  of  some  ponderous  machinery.  At  reg 


ularly  recurrent  intervals  the  rumbling  was  broken 
by  a  loud  swat,  which  sounded  like  a  man  spank 
ing  a  cheese  with  a  scoop-shovel. 

Walking  over  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  I 
found  myself  in  the  department  where  the  "  Chronic 
Kickers  "  reap  the  bitter  reward  of  their  pessimistic 
lives.  The  mechanical  kicking-machines  used 
here  are  perhaps  the  most  valuable  labor-saving 
devices  in  Hell. 

The  following  facts  I  culled  from  the  Tourists' 
Guide  given  me  by  Mr.  Satan: 

"Each  machine  is  so  constructed  that  it  re 
sembles  a  huge  mule;  eighty-two  of  these  mules 
constitute  one  large  machine.  Each  mule  is  capa 
ble  of  getting  in  seventy-six  kicks  per  minute; 
and  the  entire  force  at  work  has  a  capacity  of  6,232 
kicks  every  sixty  seconds." 

It  was  an  impressive  sight.  The  "Chronic 
Kickers"  were  swung  off  a  precipitous  rock  and 
allowed  to  hang  down  just  far  enough  to  get  the 
brunt  of  the  mules'  heels  as  they  swung  up.  Some 
of  them,  through  force  of  habit,  vainly  try  to  kick 


W     .5 
• 
UJ 
0      g. 

3  5 


w  5 

as  t 

H    2 


THE  JOURNEY'S  END. 


back.  In  the  later  stages  of  my  weird  journey  I 
had  begun  to  grow  aweary  of  darkness.  Now  I 
pined  for  the  light  of  the  upper  world. 

A  big,  brawny  demon,  with  a  forked  tail  and  a 
noisy  respiration,  like  the  sniffle  of  a  captive  boar, 
stood  in  the  path  as  I  shambled  toward  the  elevator. 
I  passed  behind  him,  hoping  I  would  not  be  seen. 
As  a  windmill's  wheels  veer  at  a  sudden  gust  of  air, 
he  turned  and  swooped  upon  me.  I  cowered  in 
the  darkness  of  the  rock,  but  he  caught  me  quite 
easily. 


A  strong  hand  clutched  my  coat  collar.  There 
was  a  convulsive  jerk,  a  sound  of  hissing  air-brakes 
and  a  general  commotion  around  me. 

"Get  off!"  I  screamed,  and  then  a  terrific 
shake  unsettled  the  lethargy,  and,  opening  my  eyes, 
I  saw  the  conductor  standing  over  me. 

"All  out  for  Chicago!" 

"Chicago!"  said  I.  "Great  Sardanapalus!  I 
thought  this  was  Hell." 


X 

w 

W 

33 


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